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They called them Crows.
He knew precisely how long he’d been concealed in the undergrowth; four hours, twelve minutes and forty seconds, or seven hundred and fifty eight calm and regular breaths.
A mist hugged the forest trails, hiding the horizon behind a gauzy grey-white curtain. The sun had crept above the horizon two hours previously, but low grey clouds had refused to let night leave completely, trapping the world in the murky half light between night and day; a world of matt greys and curious shadows.
The Crows never wore black, only an idiot wore that colour in the wilds; it was too strong, too visible. They wore the colours of the land, soft greys, browns and greens, scarred with darker burn marks and splashes of mud; their skin painted with streaks of henna and splashed with mud. The clothes they wore were simple, functional; decorations snagged, rings caught or shone, there were no feathers, hunting trophies or displays of rank or status. They knew each other to well to need that.
Hoof beats. His eyes darted to the five arrows by his feet, the head of each one pressed into the dirt. With consummate slowness, he reached down and selected two.
Two riders emerged from the mist, a male and female, laughing and shouting in their base and muddy language their horses steaming with sweat as they cantered heavily onwards. Arrow flights blossomed on the horses’ chests like strange and deadly flowers.
The female was lucky, her side saddle position threw her clear as her horse went down, and she bounced and sprawled ahead of the beast. The male was less fortunate, with a horrified squawk he was pulled under the tumbling mass of his ruined animal.
They hopped from their hiding places and out onto the trail, they laughed and joked with sing-song voices as the female tried to pull herself away, they smiled and waited as the male breathed red foam, his arms pushing uselessly at the weight of his broken-necked beast. The song of an arrow in flight ended the pained whickering of the female’s horse.
In the mists of the early morning the elves and the humans danced, and the screams scared the birds from the trees.
They called them Crows because they stole the eyes of the sleeping, pecked at the wounded and the dead, took anything shiny or interesting.
They called them Crows because once the morning mists rolled away people would see the dark and broken shapes hanging in the branches of the tall leafless trees.
They called them murderers, rapists and thieves.
They called them Crows.
He knew precisely how long he’d been concealed in the undergrowth; four hours, twelve minutes and forty seconds, or seven hundred and fifty eight calm and regular breaths.
A mist hugged the forest trails, hiding the horizon behind a gauzy grey-white curtain. The sun had crept above the horizon two hours previously, but low grey clouds had refused to let night leave completely, trapping the world in the murky half light between night and day; a world of matt greys and curious shadows.
The Crows never wore black, only an idiot wore that colour in the wilds; it was too strong, too visible. They wore the colours of the land, soft greys, browns and greens, scarred with darker burn marks and splashes of mud; their skin painted with streaks of henna and splashed with mud. The clothes they wore were simple, functional; decorations snagged, rings caught or shone, there were no feathers, hunting trophies or displays of rank or status. They knew each other to well to need that.
Hoof beats. His eyes darted to the five arrows by his feet, the head of each one pressed into the dirt. With consummate slowness, he reached down and selected two.
Two riders emerged from the mist, a male and female, laughing and shouting in their base and muddy language their horses steaming with sweat as they cantered heavily onwards. Arrow flights blossomed on the horses’ chests like strange and deadly flowers.
The female was lucky, her side saddle position threw her clear as her horse went down, and she bounced and sprawled ahead of the beast. The male was less fortunate, with a horrified squawk he was pulled under the tumbling mass of his ruined animal.
They hopped from their hiding places and out onto the trail, they laughed and joked with sing-song voices as the female tried to pull herself away, they smiled and waited as the male breathed red foam, his arms pushing uselessly at the weight of his broken-necked beast. The song of an arrow in flight ended the pained whickering of the female’s horse.
In the mists of the early morning the elves and the humans danced, and the screams scared the birds from the trees.
They called them Crows because they stole the eyes of the sleeping, pecked at the wounded and the dead, took anything shiny or interesting.
They called them Crows because once the morning mists rolled away people would see the dark and broken shapes hanging in the branches of the tall leafless trees.
They called them murderers, rapists and thieves.
They called them Crows.